


The Charity Project

by CobaltMyth



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst, Drama, M/M, Possible Character Death, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 00:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18304667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltMyth/pseuds/CobaltMyth
Summary: Lotor, a governor candidate, finishes his electoral campaign announcing the creation of Oriande Hospital. An institution intended to treat the most costly diseases.Despite the compassionate sounding project, Lotor doesn't care about his patients or the concept. He is planning to get in his population's hearts, preparing his path to run for presidential elections in 6 years through slow indoctrination.Then he meets Lance.And he learned "AML" stands for something more than "All My Love".





	The Charity Project

_Miami, Florida. Dade County Auditorium_ , two pm. Cologne impregnated the vast amphitheater in an uneven fusion of expensive wooden perfume and tawdry imitations, almost covering the incessant scent of approaching success. Lotor, governor candidate and senator Zarkon's only son, stood before his hope-starved population. While his faux leather shoes glimmered above polished floorboards, he tapped the microphone on.

"Dear citizens of Miami, it is such a joy to speak with you."

Beneath all the makeup and a relaxed smile, hints of fatigue appeared in the shape of saggy eyelids and lifeless skin peeling down at the drier areas. Ezor mocked him while applying the third round of moisturizer, how he needed to drown in a pool with his daily 8 cups of water. She didn't understand Lotor's retort about the liquid's volume being too small for him to jump in.

Her job was to maintain his beautiful appearance. Lotor was no ordinary man, his delicate features enhanced by russet skin and captivating locks of silver hair. In no way, was it contemplated to agree with the man or understand his shenanigans.

"This is, perhaps, my last campaign speech," he hoped so, at least. With his rival party gaining popularity after posting a social media campaign with several 'hashtags' targeting the youth as their final move, Lotor was adamant to win this race, "And I chose Miami because your voices are heard. Everywhere in Florida. I want to talk to you about something, something unbelievably important."

Expectation emerged, decorating the background with endless susurrus crammed with theories and vindicated disbelief. Lotor didn't falter, nor did he rush his words. He waited until the momentum knocked at his door, with several hands raising despite the insignificant information he'd dropped so far.

Then, as his hands slipped in comfort of warm pockets, he tugged at his tailored suit and adjusted it with seeming casualty. As if the political life wasn't a challenge but an ideal hobby, an enjoyable incursion.

For a second, his mind conveyed to his teenage years, with him clearing his throat before giving the heading to his new school presentation.

"Life," It rolled out of his tongue with significant easiness.

"Humankind has spent millennia looking for its meaning. We see life in what surrounds us. Green foliage, chirping birds, laughing kids. There's life in every dream of success, and there was life behind every magnificent story our grandparents tell us." Spoke the man with silky curtains of silver hair, the light made it gleam each time he walked across the large hall. Some sighed in guilty contentment, dreamy with the graceful melody of his voice and lyrical speech.

"Life is the period we are given to achieve our goals, our own story to tell," More than a promise, he ached his words to be heard as a motivation. "With me as your governor, I will give you every tool for you to make your dreams achievable. Our economy will be strong, it will grant you stability. The steps you have to take are here, right in front of you."

Loud clapping echoed the large theatre, following the words of the candidate. "Sadly, life is predated by many evils."

Every horror story needed two things. The main character to care about, and a real menace to their safety. What better way to achieve dread, if not by making  _everyone_ , the protagonist?

"Disease being one of them. There are many illnesses we're scared of, they guzzle down vitality until our bodies are nothing but hollow pockets with no soul. A world without health is a world without life."

There was no denying how chronic pathologies were gaining patients by the time. A larger population of older age meant a higher risk of acquiring more non-infectious illnesses. Cancer, despite being a lot less common, could absorb a family's yearly savings in the blink of an eye.

"Many unaided people need help today. And thankfully, there are people willing to lend a hand. I know there's good in our citizens, I know there's good in wealthy CEO's, singers, football players," he snapped his fingers, an implicit sign for the show to begin. "This gave birth to my most ambitious project."

The massive screen behind him displayed a new hospital, having every spectator awe in suspense for an explanation behind the prolonged prelude.

The majestic building reflected immaculate white with only a few details in purple, it showed crystal windows in the front and LED screens on the outside, exhibiting the name of the institution and every pathology treated there.

 

"What you see here is a result of my idea and the hard work of several good-intentioned people. A hospital meant to treat expensive diseases we know exist, we know cost a lot of money, and we know someone else could and wants to help with."

 

Soon, the photo morphed to a series of advanced surgery rooms along with comfortable rooms specialized for patients.

 

"Patients apply to get in our free aid program, we add their information and diagnosis to our website along with the funds necessary for their treatment. A person who wants to donate selects the cause they'd like to aid and, after a series of easy monetary processes, will invest in their treatment."

 

Although a handful of people applauded their candidate's altruism, some arched their brows in certain disdain. Big salaries meant higher taxes, and now such a responsibility was laid on them? It sounded unfair to their end and just a novel version of the same socialist propaganda about rich people having to pay for everything.

 

Lotor wouldn't be surprised. He also owned a fair amount of money he'd like to preserve. Attacking his equals didn't concede as his original intention. "For those wondering what they win from the C _harity Project_ , the answer is simple," like a mind reader or an expert manipulator, he clasped his hands together and turned at the corner where the elite sat. "Every dollar invested in this cause will be discounted from your taxes, and the hospital will spend two percent of its monthly income in the advertisement for its sponsors."

 

Given the softening features in some of their faces, Lotor grew more confident. "You'll also acquire a status of "Notorious Aid Provider", which will be nationally recognized and, in the future, internationally as well."

 

Recognition and a superior moral that goes beyond angry posts in social media. This was active participation, meaningful decisions. Who could deny such a delightful offer? "Think about it, you would still have to pay the money—but what you're doing with it is going to change a person's life. I know you will make the right decision."

Between enthusiastic cheering, his speech ended. "I count on you, Florida."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Every constellation blinked back at the tired pair of blue pupils, the path of light barely refracting from a half-open window. Lance never thought how convenient it was to have your bed next to a source of air and natural illumination until now, brawling his own will to keep his eyes open, despite the passage of time wearing off every vestige of reminiscent energy.

He sighed, submerged into an awkward state of vigilant insomnia.

Lotor, his state's governor candidate, has dropped the biggest bomb during his last campaign meeting. The news was broadcasted worldwide, earning every country's attention with the man's innovative idea. It's been six hours since he watched the video streaming on Youtube, expectant to read more about the project.

"Por favor, por favor," He'd been refreshing Twitter twice every minute. It's been months since he last felt so energized and hopeful.

Lance's bedroom reflected well his mental state: empty cans of coke scattered across the room as if they were some pathetic game's Easter Eggs, a pile of clothes bundled at the corner of his bed along with his abandoned blanket. Not a fan of bed-making, the mess had become a usual feature in his cavern.

Another remarkable trait had to be his solemn state of misery.

The hot weather of the season and lack of AC often weakened his precarious state and forced him to stay in bed until the dizziness left his body.

Like it happened a couple of hours earlier, today. Every attempt to go out during his only free day was reduced to nothing but silent anticipation for his body to recover.

It didn't.

He still was sitting among the bloodied pillows he'd washed not long ago. Lance no longer felt annoyed, however. Engrossed in possibilities, he thought about how keeping his place clean would be easier when his nasal hemorrhages stopped (hopefully) soon.

It could be the heat, his progressive blood loss or even naivety, but for the first time in forever, saying his torture could end "soon" didn't sound like a made-up utopia. All he needs is the list of diseases. He just needs to see "AML" in the hospital's treatable pathologies. And then, hell, he could survive. Perhaps, there'd be a fat chance to leave this endless suffering behind.

A new article showed up in his feed, eyes widening as soon as he read the heading.

"GREAT NEWS: If you have any of these illnesses and need financial aid, join governor candidate Lotor's program NOW!" He pressed his thumb against the broken screen of his cell phone, huffing in annoyance every extra second it took the page to charge. "Honestly, Internet? HD videos that should take minutes to load? No problem! A freaking list with names and nothing more? Oh, give me half an hour, could ya?"

But he grew silent as soon as the list appeared. Classified in different types of diseases, he started skimming the article in search of his own. "Angelman Syndrome, Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, no, no, it isn't here..." Sepsis, Cystic Fibrosis, Coarctation of the Aorta. He was reading back and forward, eyebrows knitting into a small frown of despair as he kept reading.

 

"Blood cancer—, shit, leukemia is here. It really is here. I can't believe it..." It lifted the heavy weight in his chest, replacing it with a warm pool of genuine faith. The pain at his hips and bones suddenly became imperceptible, the discomfort at his joints didn't prevent his hands from tightening into fists.

 

It has been eight months since he was diagnosed, and the first he'd be treated. An illegal immigrant with no insurance would normally have no chance to survive or get aid from his governor but—Lotor, he was different, right? He was kind, generous and compassionate.

 

Lotor would save him.

 

* * *

 

 

A 2018 Bugatti Chiron made every head turn as it grumbled through the crowded streets. Passersby showed amusement, materializing it in quick pictures of the expensive vehicle. Drivers weren't any different, many moved aside to let the sports car be the rightful center of attention.

Protected by dark windows, Lotor basked in the privacy of his newest acquisition. Worth 2 million Euro, it was undeniable the man had sufficient wealth in his international bank accounts.

"Are you ready for the elections? Since the hospital opened everything's been going great for you. Nobody in town even considers voting for someone else."

"There is nothing honorable in voting against those keen on helping your brothers."

Simple as that, these elections had lost their political value. Instead, a wrong vote was a decision against humanity. "We will create a strong feeling of fraternity, we're the good people. What's good for one will be good for all. Those who stand against society's principles will be wiped out by my own citizens."

Lotor knew how humans worked. After creating a bond with his voters and demonstrating his ideas deemed worthy, there'd be nothing standing in the way of his real purpose and desire: The presidential elections.

"In seven years, I will see you commanding this country to a better future. Only you could make that happen."

"Thank you, Dayak. I appreciate your loyalty." He was willing to end the call now, having his finger hover over the touch screen of the car. Her voice disturbed his intentions.

"I, however, didn't call to just compliment you. You should pay the hospital a visit, there are some press interviewers around."

"So? Allow them to admire the glory of my building and its undeniable functionality."

"There is a child claiming discrimination for not getting inside the project. Shall I discard him?"

 

As soon as he heard the warning, Lotor released a heavy sigh. He'd have said yes to that option if there weren't any members of the press inside. "No, I will take care of it on my own. I'm coming."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Oriande Hospital's people weren't half as kindhearted and tender as he dreamed about. Lance noticed so when the cordial woman before him ceased treating him decently after learning his application was rejected.

"Please... Please, can't I talk to Lotor? I am sure if he knew about my case, he would change his mind, please, miss. It'd only be a five-minute chat?" Regardless of his playful smiles, anguish gnawed his apparently good-humor by the second.

The female before him didn't even bat her eyes, no compassion preceded her answer. "Your application was denied. Lotor trusts our judgment and he agrees with our decisions. I apologize sir, but we cannot help you. Now move, you're making a line."

Lance's lips trembled, feeling himself plumbing into the depths of despondency. He thought losing hope was the last thing he should do, but at this moment, after wasting thirty minutes begging to be heard—everything was turning dark.

Dark, cold, lonely.

In a year, or even less, he would die alone.

And the thought paralyzed him.

"You are right... sorry." As soon as he took a step aside, tears started running down his face. He was tired. Exhausted. He's worked so hard on picking the best outfit he had at home to build a good impression on Lotor when he could speak with him personally.

He fixed his hair, covered the several bruises in his arms with a jacket and paid a quick visit to a perfume store just to wear a scent that smelled like success.

He never thought it'd end like this. With him bawling his eyes out as he fought to find his way to the exit, kicked out like nothing but dirt. He hated it. He hated his life. He loathed his body, the cells in his blood growing into useless ones. He hated how he bled profusely even with a papercut, and the dark purple splotches that appeared on his skin at any bump against a harmless object. He hated his anemia and his faintness, he hated the look of himself in front of the mirror. He hated being so far away from his family.

He hated being alive.

No matter his interminable efforts to deny his nature, nor his sanguine approach to people. The story was the same no matter the context— clients at the store will still complain about being too slow, his accent was still a target to mockery when he went to the bank, his disease would still be there despite how hard he tried to deny it. It ran through his veins with rampant force and it consumed every drop of his happiness. The American dream was a nightmare, a nightmare he didn't even want to wake up from.

Quiet sobbing had evolved into hopeless gasps for air, his vision clouded into a blurry image as people walked past him.

"Mister, are you alright, what happened? Please tell us what's going on." The gentle touch on his shoulder made him raise his head in an instant, hoping it was a worker of the hospital who found pity in him. At the sight of the microphone and a large camera, disappointment appeared upon his face.

"I didn't get in. I sent my application, but... I didn't get in," he barely spoke between his nervous hiccupping. It was almost humiliating, to be rejected and express his feelings over it to the states, or the world. He doubted anyone cared that much.

"What is your disease? Why do you think you deserve being part of the project?"

Lance pursed his lips, unsure of what to say. He didn't deserve being part of the project because he was illegal, and no one would give economic support to an immigrant who didn't even bother to get his papers. In the end, it was his own confidence and carelessness what brought him to this place.

"I got here a year and two months ago. My family lives in Cuba, I hate seeing them struggle for food. I came here because they needed money—" A sigh, Lance brushed his knuckles into his face, hoping to stop the salty cascade. He looked pathetic, he knew, "After I moved—, I started getting sick all the time, and—when I went to the doctor, I was diagnosed with AML..."

"Excuse me, what does A.M.L stand for?"

"Acute Myeloid Leukemia," Each word marked with absolute despise, Lance's murmur sounded like a curse.

"I can't treat it. I don't have insurance, I don't even have a person to help me pay for my treatment. I work, but I send it to my family because it'd still not be enough for me. I'll never have seven thousand dollars to spend on me," his parents didn't know either. He'd never tell them about his struggles when he knew every sacrifice they made to survive. "It's been months since I know I have this and if I continue to let it progress I'll—" he choked, frustrated. Lance never thought he'd be so aware of his death. And it scared him not to know when it'd happen. When everything would end. Would he even get help when the pain is too heavy to handle? Would he be granted, at least, his last wish?

"We're live from Oriande Hospital, a patient whose application has been denied speaks to us about the details. Mister, why has your application been denied? Did they give a valid reason?"

Lance didn't want to talk anymore. Overwhelmed and defeated, he just wanted to drop the subject and leave. There wasn't anything these people would do for him aside from getting information with political ends. He was nothing but a mediatic tool now, wasn't he? Offering responses to feed opposition polls for free.

It was revolting, and his head started its daily plethora of sordid symptoms. Drowsiness made him step aside until his back hit a chilly wall.

Prepared for more questioning, Lance stared down with increasing irritation. Only to realize karma played on his side, as the routing attention stopped focusing on him from a second to another.

The brunet found the reason behind the change in behavior, the interviewers hunted a bigger prize: governor candidate and Oriande Hospital's owner and founder, Lotor, had just entered the building.

"I expect this gathering at the entrance to be a celebration for free healthcare to those in need?" Avoiding any questions, the tall male imposed his presence among several voices directing at him. Fully aware of the current situation, he must take the event to his own advantage. He had little time to evaluate the conflict's progression since he received Dayak's warning and elaborate an answer that made him seem like an absolute, benevolent and selfless leader.

There was no distinctive answer, only questions thrown at him in defensive, judging tones. Behind the cluster of loud reporters pushing their microphones at him, Lotor caught a glimpse of his important target. A young male, probably no older than 20. If his fragile-looking figure didn't tell the chance of a disease, the sorrow imprinted on his features would've wiped away any doubt.

"You all claim to care about your people, but your selfish thirst for a good story created a barrier between me and the only significant person in this moment."

 

He extended his arms, a graceful motion that separated the journalists. For a moment, Lance evoked that bible passage where God's disciple spreads the red sea. Like a Messiah, Lotor's tall silhouette emerged between the endless chatter. A hand opened at him, polished teeth flashing into a smile. Lance blinked, wiping away the blurriness of his early tears.

 

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Lotor started, shaking the cold hand fitting in his own, "It seems you've been crying, and given the crowd surrounding you, I am afraid it's because of a bad experience regarding our institution."

 

Lotor's voice reminded him of old English CDs. Harmonious rumbles, clear enough for him to understand every word in automatic mode. Pleasant, from the speed to the mellow sympathy it evoked.

 

Lance pursed his lips, swallowing his last miserable yelp. This meeting had to be the most deplorable turn he could've taken, playing a pity part in front of the entire country and forcing his favorite candidate to accept him in the program. "I'm sorry... I was about to leave." He admitted, defeated by his own morale and inevitable self-resentment. The strength of his handshake degenerated until the limb backslid from the hold.

 

"What is your name?" Lotor asked, allowing him to break the contact. He couldn't allow this patient to leave now, not in front of the cameras.

 

"Uh, Lance, sir."

 

"Lance, our team has been trained to accept or deny program applications recently," he started, which failed to get the brunet's visual attention back on him yet, "Which means, our system is prone to failure. I'd hate to exclude a patient who desperately needs help, and the look on your face tells me you wanted a second chance."

 

By the time their gazes met, the corner of Lotor's lips curved into a smile. He won. "Allow us to learn from you, Lance. Join our program, I'll make sure to get you an assigned doctor to define your state and estimate your treatment. We want to help you. Please, trust me, we'll take care of you."

 

And in front of enthused awing, the last image Lance captured was Lotor's dark fingers adjusting around his arms, flashing lights erased the last glimpse of the man's face. Was he worried, annoyed, entertained? His feet didn't support his weight anymore, but his well-known meeting with the hard floor didn't happen. Lance frowned, confused as his consciousness slipped away in a delirious thrift.

 

"His pulse is getting too low," a female's voice emerged the conversation. "Blue code, blue code!"

 

_Everything went **/black/.**_

**Author's Note:**

> Your ideas, thoughts, and suggestions are very welcomed! I wouldn't mind including side ships and have some in mind but I will tag them as the story progresses.


End file.
